Chooser of the Slain
by BC
Summary: Sequel to Penchant for Deceit. Artemis is determined to walk through doors that are closed to others – even when Butler cannot follow. The world goes on turning. DBAF
1. Ananke

Chooser of the Slain

x

Summary: Sequel to Penchant for Deceit. Artemis is determined to walk through doors that are closed to others – even when Butler cannot follow. The world goes on turning. DBAF

Disclaimer: Don't own Artemis Fowl. Make no money from this story.

Warnings: slash, explicit sexual situations, violence, character death, _happy end_

A/N: _Chooser of the Slain_ is a sequel to _Penchant for Deceit_. I played with the idea of just adding on chapters to the original story, but I feel that the sequel introduces whole new concepts that probably diverge from Mr Colfer's intentions with Artemis… not that the slash is particularly canon-friendly as such… Anyway, the important thing is that I strongly recommend you read _Penchant for Deceit_ first, otherwise you won't understand the background of this story or the relationships established in it.

Cheers!

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Part One: Ananke

x

It was a relatively novel feeling for Artemis. Someone with his vocabulary should not lack words to express himself, but Artemis quickly decided that he had no intention of cheapening his current state of mind by attempting to communicate it.

He was lying, burrowed under a pile of furs, on a sleigh. Although he would have preferred to sit up and watch the snow-and-ice wasteland rush past him, the motion sickness would have been overwhelming.

He heard the dogs pant. Paws hit the grey-blue ground and lifted off in a spray of snowflakes. The night was clear – so clear that similes failed him – stars shone overhead on the backdrop of indigo space and far as the eye could see, the snow was untouched; only the tracks of the sleigh stretched from Artemis' feet to the horizon.

He craned his neck, lifted his chin higher. The dogs were mostly hidden from his sight by the bulky dark silhouette of his sole companion, and the arctic air froze Artemis' lungs, for surely there was no other possible reason for his heart to ache like that-

Artemis rapidly sat up, jolted into consciousness. The covers slid off his chest, and once out of the warm cocoon, his skin promptly covered in goose-bumps.

His screensaver chronometer ticked soundlessly towards three o'clock.

"Inbox," Artemis said, rubbing sleep from his eyes. A part of him wanted to pull the covers over his head, pretend to sleep for a while longer, and try to recall the _painful yet glorious_ sensation from the dream.

"Thirty-seven new messages," the computer said in its synthetised voice. It used to be Artemis' voice, but after he had witnessed Foaly talking to his virtual self, he decided that there were limits to how conceited he was willing to appear.

Artemis climbed out of his bed, plucked a black satin dressing gown from the back of his swivel chair, shrugged it on and tied the sash. Thirty-seven e-mails in four hours – in the middle of the night. Artemis sighed. He was the principal of a pecuniary circus, and the show went on and on and on in a Freddy Mercury style. He morbidly wondered if it would stop once he was dead…

Myles would take over, he suspected. Kid was smart – and that coming from Artemis was high praise indeed – but he didn't have the kind of experience that made someone into a good person (for it is easy to do good when you see no other options, but when the more profitable venues are plentiful, it takes heart to veer off that course, as Artemis knew better than anyone).

Disgusted, he shut the inbox. If there was an emergency, his underlings could deal with it. There was no earthly need for him to work in the middle of the night, after scant three hours of sleep.

He dressed, selecting more informal clothes that he was used to, and departed to hunt down some coffee.

"Caffeine-addict and borderline insomniac," he mused, passing his twin brothers' door. "Hn. I could have ADHD…"

To a casual observer it might have seemed like he was going off the deep end, talking to himself, but said casual observer wouldn't have noticed the deeper shadow on the platform.

Artemis was, for a fact, very aware of his Cyclothymia (_not_ Attention Deficit Disorder; he had no deficit of attention, thank you very much) – had been since he was about five – and he blamed some of his mildly sociopathic quirks on it, but this was the kind of thing that seemed humorous to him: what was there left to do at three o'clock in the morning but laugh at himself?

A pair of massive arms pulled him against a rock-hard chest, and he exhaled into the cotton shirt.

"Another failure," he said, with self-deprecating amusement. Yes, Artemis Fowl the Second could fail – could fail spectacularly and repeatedly, so many times that even he was losing faith in his own ability. "Could they have made it truly impossible?" he wondered aloud. He didn't expect a response – Domovoi generally didn't enter into his monologues unless Artemis asked him to. "Can there be something in this world that is absolute?"

"Death?" Domovoi suggested dryly.

Artemis met his bodyguard's eyes. "Death?"

He had cheated death – more than once – but it was true that there had been _circumstances_. Nothing could bring back Opal Koboi (not that he regretted it). Nothing could bring back Julius Root.

"It would be entirely a good thing," Artemis opined, let out of his friend's arms. It was just as well that Domovoi knew all the blind spots in the Manor's security, else they would have made a spectacle of themselves for whoever was on duty watching the feeds. "I don't think I shall miss life. It was engaging, for a while, but then it's gotten _mind-numbingly_ dull." Artemis despised anything that compromised his sharpness.

Domovoi didn't say anything for a while, and Artemis almost felt guilty for unloading on him, again and again, with the repetitive melodramatic tale of woe – except that Domovoi had actually asked him to, in not so many words.

Then Domovoi shrugged. "It's up to you to liven it up."

With a hoarse chuckle, Artemis separated himself from the wall and set out on his way in the opposite direction. His friend didn't shadow him this time, uncertain whether his company was desired.

"My knowledge of 'livening it up' is purely theoretical," Artemis explained, pausing. "Juliet might be able to give me some directions."

Domovoi apparently didn't consider Juliet safe enough for Artemis to be around on his own, so he followed. It seemed a little as though he was favouring his left leg, but he was too accomplished a professional to let his principal see-

Artemis wished the man would see him as a shield-brother rather than an employer. Pity.

He knocked on the door and opened it without waiting for invitation. He didn't step in, however; Juliet used to be a wrestler, and had a rather unfortunate sense of humour. She had yet to get the best of Artemis, though, and the bucket of cold water above her door was no more successful that any of her previous tricks.

Artemis was almost insulted.

However, he knew perfectly that Juliet was more astute than most gave her credit for. She was also puerile and lacked prudence that was necessary for a bodyguard, but she did a good job as a chief of security, better yet for being accepted as almost a member of the family by the elder Fowls and – unexpectedly enough – Beckett, since she was the only one able to completely accept him despite his Asperger syndrome (sometimes it seemed like the sole mentally healthy Fowl was Artemis' father, and that only because his issues had been dealt with by the shock-therapy of incarceration by Mafiya).

"Aw," Juliet pouted, jumping out of the shadows. She stood in the centre of the carpet, hands on her hips, braid swinging like a pendulum. "I'll get you one day, you'll see…"

Artemis half-inclined his head, a way of saying 'believe what you will'. Juliet was, in her own slightly deranged way, trying to keep him on his toes without exposing him to significant damage. Aside from that, they had a truce.

"I could comment on the redirected feed from the security cameras," Artemis said, making himself comfortable on top of Juliet's vanity, pushing a few make-up articles out of the way.

The young woman glared, but didn't argue. They had blackmail on each other, bad, serious, life-fucking-up blackmail, and Artemis couldn't allow himself to become friends with anyone in possession of such knowledge – although he did, at times, regret it. He did not really mind the fact that she monitored his movements through the Manor and prepare pranks that never worked anyway, not when there were much more material aspects to mind.

"What do I owe your visit – oh, and my brother's! Is it a party? A sleepover? An apocalypse approaching and you need my help-"

"Too many energy drinks are bad for your health, Juliet." Domovoi appeared in the doorway, looming and scowling with disapproval. Juliet would have been aware of him beforehand, naturally, but even so his presence dulled her jocund hyperactivity.

"It has been suggested that I 'liven up my life'," Artemis said, tone perfectly equanimous, although Domovoi knew that the statement wasn't free of mocking simply because it had been spoken by his principal. "I found it prudent to consult the expert before I settled on a course of action." He did, however, get a hold of Domovoi's wrist and stroked its back with his thumb to show he did not mean to be hurtful.

Juliet's eyes unmistakably zeroed on the point of contact, and she chuckled bitterly. She flung herself into a loveseat (as a faux member of the family, her rooms equalled Angeline Fowl's in luxuriousness) and stretched, displaying far more of her body than would have been desirable through the extremely thin silk of her sleeping… garment.

"Since I know – quite literally – what you _get up to_…" she waggled her eyebrows, irritating Artemis with her vulgarity, "…I'll skip the most natural suggestion of finding a fine piece of ass and getting your rocks off." She faked a moment of deep contemplation, propping her jaw with her palm. "Have you tried croquet?"

Artemis let the fallen silence echo for seconds, until a normal person would have been embarrassed for what they had said. Juliet wasn't normal in any sense of the word, though, and seemed to have decided to make the silence into a contest between herself and Artemis and see who was going to be more patient.

Artemis didn't have the slightest intention of indulging her. "Apparently," he said, "I overestimated your imagination. I apologise for disturbing your much-needed beauty sleep-"

"So mean, Arty!" she laughed.

Artemis' scowl deepened. Only his mother was allowed to call him that (and Holly, if he was feeling indulgent). His so-designated marriage prospects occasionally tried, and he has long since become accomplished at ignoring their existence (although he had a strong feeling that most of them failed to notice his complete disregard of them).

"Juliet," Domovoi said in a completely even voice. In a low, soft, rumbling voice that made Artemis' heart skip a beat with the amount of understanding, sympathy and aggravation on his behalf. It was a little redundant – Juliet wasn't a foe that Artemis had any problem wiping in a verbal spar – but most of Domovoi's shows of affection were thoroughly disguised as marginally over-the-top protectiveness.

"You're making this harder on yourself than it needs to be," Juliet said, with shallow frown-lines between her eyebrows that suggested she was being candid for a change. "You don't talk to your parents, you ignore your siblings, you detest your employees – aside from my brother, there is not a single human being you allow close to you. No wonder you're a twitch of a finger away from blowing your brains out."

"Juliet-"

Domovoi was trembling with angry disapproval, but Artemis' fingers tightened around his wrist, because he did have a measure of appreciation for the blunt honesty.

"Go do something crazy, something you wouldn't do otherwise – _illogical_. That's the word." Juliet nodded to herself, with assurance that came from experiencing the real, realistic, mundane world. "Get married."

Artemis snorted. "I imagine that would send me over the edge all that faster."

"You're such an arse, Young Master Fowl," the woman shook her head in exasperation. All the boundless energy seemed to have evaporated from her. The atmosphere was gradually gaining a funereal odour that followed Artemis wherever he went like a perfume. "I'd pity the girl you'd marry."

"But you still tell me to do it," he pointed out, finding the irony.

Domovoi freed his limb then, and Artemis hated how rejected the action made him feel. He was becoming maudlin, too in love to remain focused on his goal, and he was compromising his effort.

"I'd rather if you didn't blow up half of the continent because you were bored," Juliet replied.

"I'll finish it before I get another bright idea that would kill masses of people," Artemis said dryly and hurried out of the door. If not even Juliet could give him an idea on how to appear social, it was past the highest time for him.

"Artemis!" Juliet called out, genuinely distraught – else she would have used a title.

"Call someone to mop up the water," Artemis added dispassionately, jumping over the puddle with absent-minded ease that seemed to continually surprise those who knew him. His life had become an adrenaline sport on its own, giving him endurance and speed, if not dexterity or flexibility.

He knew now – and Juliet had driven the message deeper – that he could not continue pretending he was alright. The realisation chased away the last vestiges of tiredness, and he was ready, at quarter past three in the morning, to start a new day. He wasn't in the mood for business today, he decided.

With a jaunt in his step that had really nothing to do with mirth, he set out down the stairs.

x

"Was that necessary?" Domovoi asked, bitterly aware that his objectiveness was so badly compromised that he couldn't rely on his observations anymore.

Juliet crossed her arms in front of her chest and hunched. "Angeline told me yesterday that she's going to ask Doctor von Neumann to have a 'chat' with him. I'm worried… He's slipping…"

Domovoi closed his eyes for a moment, and selfishly wished Artemis had succeeded in the suicidal plan he had concocted last year in Reykjavik and got himself killed in a faraway land rather than wasting away bit by bit.

"I tried," Domovoi said, to himself, since Juliet was never as cruel as to accuse him of shirking his duties.

"I know," she replied. "Better than anyone. You did more than could be asked of you. Maybe…" Juliet paused and gave him a long, imploring gaze that made his throat tighten and sent a shiver down his spine. "Maybe it's time to let go."

Domovoi shook his head. He felt defeated – and in this fight he would be – but he could not give up. He feared – was almost certain – _wished_ that he would follow Artemis, wherever the young man would go.

"I can't," he said.

Juliet nodded; the corners of her lips twisted downwards, and she rested her forehead on her knees. "I figured."

"You…"

"I'm angry, maybe… sad. Disappointed," Juliet mumbled. "You're my brother, and I love you. Seeing you like this hurts. But you can't help that, and I understand."

"Thank you," Domovoi replied, and closed the door behind himself.

He took a deep breath of the night air drafting through the hallways, and ignored the stinging in his eyes. He had signed his soul away, and he wasn't capable of regretting the decision anymore. Artemis was the Yggdrasil of his life – as evidenced by Domovoi's knowledge of what the Yggdrasil was.

Domovoi knew beyond a smidgen of doubt that his friend needed him now – needed him more than he usually did when he came asking for a bit of affection and/or obliviation – and that drowned out all the counter-arguments in his head. He wasn't in the mood for sex, and definitely not in the mood to listen to spoken recriminations or hear silent ones resonate in the air every time he met Artemis' eyes, but there was no limit to how much he would sacrifice to help Artemis fight the onset of insanity.

He was willing to give of himself until there was no more to give – or no one to give it to. Either was going to happen soon, he could feel it in his bones, and he had to struggle to quell the rise of despair and keep his level-headedness through the last days – weeks – months…

He pressed his hand to the scanner and punched in two codes in rapid succession. The door yielded and let him into the dusky room, where he was welcome by the blinking diodes of Artemis' supercomputer and the whirring of its viscera. He knew, instantly, that his principal wasn't there.

He also knew that it meant his principal didn't want company, no euphemisms intended. He thought the choice unwise, but it wasn't up to him to contest it.

x

Artemis, dressed in only his nightclothes and a dressing gown, was sitting in the darkened library, with Poetic Edda open on the table in front of him. He breathed its smell – familiar and as good as relaxing – and spent a while just musing on the sense of life and existence of higher beings and true love.

His newly awakened sentimentality had registered the most trivial of notions: the first time Domovoi spontaneously pulled him close and held him, when he said "I think you're wrong", that time when he had absently ripped the cable out of the security camera like it was routine. Artemis never thought he would have wanted someone to argue with him, but he found that he liked Domovoi's assertiveness and didn't want it to be limited to instances of mortal danger and sex. He wanted to be able to rely on it, to know that Domovoi would try and impose human limits on him even if only to see where those limits were as he was passing them.

More than ever, he regretted his foolish idea to contact Spiro about the Cube. It wasn't as if he minded that Domovoi had jumped almost a generation further from him, but it meant that time was becoming a pressing issue. Soon, Artemis knew, all too soon Domovoi would _feel _too weak to continue his job…

Sighing, he touched his forehead to his interlaced fingers.

No journey through time-space, no known magic and no technology could turn back the years for someone. Artemis was legally twenty-three now; physically he had turned twenty-one a few days ago. Domovoi, on the other hand, was forty-five, but his body had advanced to roughly sixty. He was unbelievably strong for a man that age, but still…

Time was an acute problem.

Artemis had found a solution, however, like all solutions, it came with side-effects of pain, betrayal and deterioration of precious things.

"I have decided, haven't I?" he reminded himself. "What matters to _me_."

In the end, however, there was no comfort.

x

"It's interesting," he said the next evening into his latest fairy communicator (he went through them fast enough to make even Foaly happy).

Holly laughed. "Yeah, right, Arty."

Bone-weary, Artemis crouched in his swivel-chair and counted how long it had been since he last saw Holly. He came up with a staggering figure: 416 days. More than a year.

He opened his mouth – and closed it again. Once upon a time he would have been perfectly capable of admitting to his friend that he missed her. Unfortunately, he had been given ages to rebuild his emotional walls.

Interesting, how, instead of mellowing him, lack of mortal danger hardened Artemis Fowl.

"Artemis?" Holly asked, worried.

"I'm here," he replied. He couldn't think of what to say; he had tried talking about the Voluspä and been shot down, his work didn't interest Holly (or him anymore), his private life was – nonexistent. In hindsight, 'I'm here' pretty much summed up his entire being.

"You're slacking off if you resort to stating the obvious, Arty," Holly teased. Had she been anyone else, he would have suspected her of being drunk. As a LEP elf on a day after the Full Moon, Holly would have been brimming with magic, possibly high on it.

Artemis missed magic. He had not seen as much as a blue spark in more than thirteen months.

"You are alright, Holly, aren't you?" he asked, just in case.

"Stop fretting over me, Mud Boy," she said with fond exasperation.

Artemis nodded to himself, bitterer than 70-percent cocoa chocolate. If that was Holly's wish, he would respect it.

"Take care of yourself," he softly replied, and terminated the connection. The backrest squeaked under his weight. He would have to get a new chair – wait, no, he wouldn't have to. Nobody to use it.

Subconsciously, Artemis hugged himself. A half-forgotten memory lingered on the edge of his perception, before he chased it away. Love was so similar to puberty: unconstructive, distracting, a bloody mess.

Minerva didn't give a damn about antagonizing him anymore. His family didn't have a clue about who he was. Holly couldn't be bothered to listen to him.

Domovoi couldn't look him in the eye.

It was time to give up on nonsense and go back to what he was supposed to be: a logical, pragmatic criminal mastermind.

x

He heard the dogs pant. Paws hit the grey-blue ground and lifted off in a spray of snowflakes. The night was clear – so clear that similes failed him – stars shone overhead on the backdrop of indigo space and far as the eye could see, the snow was untouched; only the tracks of the sleigh stretched from Artemis' feet to the horizon.

He craned his neck, lifted his chin higher. The dogs were mostly hidden from his sight by the bulky dark silhouette of his sole companion, and the arctic air froze Artemis' lungs, for surely there was no other possible reason for his heart to ache like that? He shifted so he could get a better look, but the muscular arm tightened around him and he melted into the embrace-

He woke, staring at the canopy.

Artemis was rather accustomed to dreams. His brain never really stopped working, and occasionally it happened to him that he woke with an idea for a scheme that had not been there when he went to sleep.

He was also fairly accustomed to nightmares, had – nearly obsessively – psychoanalysed himself and, indeed, become his own therapist once it became necessary that he had one.

He experienced recurrent dreams also, naturally, and never failed to point out what occurrences and emotions they were sparked by.

This was something different.

With every day, the knowledge of how to reach Asgard penetrated deeper into his mind, gave him a pseudo-window into that world during the time when his subconscious was closest to the surface, and it was only a matter of time and concentration until he was going to be able to mentally bridge the distance and come out of the semi-existence on the other side.

"Inbox," Artemis ordered. His hands worked on disrobing him, while his mind concentrated on the work.

"One hundred and fifteen new messages, one spam."

Artemis blinked. He hadn't gotten spam in years. His e-mail was virtually impossible to get hold of, and whatever was to be let through his protections required either specific coding, or imaginative and not a little aggressive hacking.

"Open spam folder," he said, curious.

Curled in his chair and feeling a little child-like, Artemis read the particulars of the mysterious e-mail. The subject was stated as a simple 'Invitation', which would have made him lose interest immediately, were it not for the sender: _Atana Potinija_.

He smirked. A rather straightforward allusion to the Linear B written form of Mistress Athena, ergo Lady Minerva. He knew only one Minerva that had the means and the motivation to send a message to him.

He clicked Enter.

Dear Mr Galliformis, he read, there is an urgent private matter I need to consult with you personally. Please, inform your mother that I am to receive an invitation to the next social engagement hosted by your family.  
Sincerely, Atana

Artemis sighed. Minerva had not really changed in eight years. Certainly, she had grown and matured, became more accomplished in manipulating people to her ends, amassed more patents and awards, and had made a name for herself that was, quite often, mentioned in the same breath as Artemis' (for she had known better than to try and compete with him in the business sphere, and rather created a network that offered support for his endeavours and kept them in close professional relationship). Still, however, she had the same air of self-assured arrogance, and the same not-entirely-substantiated conviction of her own superiority.

Her belief that nothing in the world (save, perhaps, Artemis) was capable of defeating her grated at Artemis' nerves. He had his own share of arrogance, but he had been in situations when he had been taken down a peg or two often enough to realise that something akin to invincibility existed only in insulated systems, and even there it was temporary.

Nevertheless, Artemis had enough respect for Minerva to activate remote access into his mother's computer (she did not find much use for it on a day to day basis, but Artemis the First had managed to enlighten her to its practicality for planning 'special occasions') and sneak Minerva's name, address and note on her connexions in between two other young females' data.

He checked the date – five weeks to go yet – and logged out of the not-officially-existing Fowl Manor LAN. He also made the mental note to physically destroy the network before his departure. He doubted he would ever return to this place, but it was better to keep a little backdoor, in case existence was yet more unpredictable than he estimated.

"Open inbox," he said softly, hugging his knees to his chest and resting his chin on one of them. The fingers of his left hand played with the ring on his right. This he was giving up, he mused, perusing the names and enquires and demands of strange people. Everything that he owned, his money, his station in the word, his associates and associations, the safety of his knowledge, his family, his birthright, his name… everything. Unless he was mistaken, he would come out on the other side with nothing at all but his mind and his determination, in a world he knew nothing about. He had no way of knowing if the place was physical as humans understood it, if his body would survive the transition…

And if it did, he would still be alone.

Shaken, Artemis leapt out of the chair and stalked across his bedroom, wired with nervous energy. He would avoid the term 'fear' for as long as he could. Fear was but a psychological barrier that stopped people from achieving what they could. He would not be limited like that.

And maybe Domovoi would refuse and send him away, for gods knew he did that often enough, but Artemis knew better than to not ask anyway. The lesser the chance of success, the sweeter the win.


	2. Stairway to Heaven

A/N: Thank you, salty-sarah, for your review! I'm glad that there is someone still interested in this story. I would like to ask all my readers to take a moment and offer some feedback – especially since the 'hits' function on has failed and I actually have no idea how many people read the first chapter. Thank you, and enjoy!

x

Part Two: Stairway to Heaven

x

Five weeks made a notable difference in the existence of Artemis Fowl.

He went on a business trip to Washington D.C., New York, Ottawa and Quebec, spent a few days in each of the cities, 'inspected' the operation, saw the sights and checked the main libraries. He didn't require another source (his dreams were becoming more intense night after night), but it was always nice to have his information double-checked if possible.

He found nothing. On the last day, hounded by his mother's frantic calls, he sat in a rented limo and stared out of the window onto the Château Frontenac disappearing into the distance. It was one of the few hotels he stayed at that he actually noticed, but even so he didn't regret that he wouldn't have a chance to come back. He was becoming so nervous that he actually developed vices: he had noticed himself tapping his foot waiting for the room service, or doodling in his notebook during a particularly boring business meeting with some middle-aged upstarts who all uniformly thought they knew what they were doing better than Artemis did.

Domovoi's cell-phone buzzed (the limo had come with a chauffeur and thus Domovoi was sitting opposite Artemis in the passenger room). The man glanced at the caller ID and accepted the call.

"Medium blue bird," he said into the handsfree, so that Juliet would know she could speak freely.

Artemis watched the top of Mount Royal, three of his left-hand fingers touching the window, leaving prints for any overeager dactyloscopist to find. He felt overwhelmingly isolated, incumbent in this huge, chilly, human-filled metropolis, but he associated isolation with individuality, and it was hardly his problem that, mentally, most of the mankind came to his bony white ankles.

"Expected at seventeen hundreds," Domovoi said.

Artemis scowled through the glass. Too trusting, too much information shared, not a safe enough channel, he thought with a smattering of paranoia. Juliet could be trusted, certainly.

"None. Everything went smoothly," Domovoi was saying. "No, and I would thank you to keep your attention on a pertinent topic. I don't ask you who-"

Artemis sneered, but wiped the expression of his face before anyone could see it.

"_Leave me alone_!" Domovoi snarled suddenly, and hung up. Artemis had looked over before he realised what he was doing. The lines of his bodyguard's face were pronounced, mouth pursed, black circles under his eyes – eyes shadowed, but meeting Artemis' without reservation. There were no apologies.

"Do you not want to go back?" Artemis asked in a weak voice. "We don't have to. We can go – wherever." Spend a week there – two at the most – before Artemis would be gone, one way or another, and Domovoi left to pick the pieces of himself, put them together and go on with his life. If all this could happen in the Fowl Manor, Artemis would be reassured, but it was by no means a condition.

"There is no place…" Domovoi hesitated. Then he hesitated longer, and then the while had passed and Artemis never found out the rest of the sentence.

There was no place for them anymore, such as they had been up to now, that much was true. Artemis was working on a plan to say goodbye and minimise the impact his imminent departure would have on his family, but so far his intellect was failing him.

"It's just one last ball." Artemis shrugged. "It would make my mother happy." That was all the reason why he bothered: to make his mother happy. His father was happy all the time, although he complained about his digestion, and Artemis couldn't imagine that not having him around would inconvenience Myles or Beckett in the least.

The spontaneous combustion his business would undergo in his absence filled him with glee. All those fat-bellied, uniformly suited but diversified by their ties, self-important men from boring meetings would run around like heedless chickens.

"If that is your wish," Domovoi replied, and there was something broken in him. He wasn't looking at Artemis anymore but out of the window, where invisible in the distance was the Château Frontenac.

Artemis felt something inside him splinter in response. There was nothing in the world – he admitted it to himself freely now – that he cared about as much as he cared about Domovoi, but in the end he had hardly treated the man differently from an expensive toy. He wished – hoped – _prayed_ that he would be given an opportunity to atone for this negligence, and he was willing to die for it, if that was the price the gods asked.

They did seem to be asking it.

"I," he said despondently, gauging that Domovoi had somehow sensed the end approaching, "don't want to make this any harder on you. I already feel guilty for believing that a mere warning could have made up for the cruelty of forcing my decisions on you when I knew you couldn't refuse me."

Domovoi closed his eyes and sighed, impossibly old. "Aut vincere…" he muttered and then, with much more conviction: "…aut mori."

x

Artemis landed his Cesna and walked out into the drizzle, gave Domovoi a quelling look when he offered to hunt down an umbrella, and set out towards the Manor in the distance, crossing the expanse of wet grass on foot for the first time in his life.

Not having a car was such a natural state, but he couldn't remember ever choosing to not use one when he could. Domovoi said nothing, simply fell into step and got soaked through together with Artemis, loyal to a fault.

They walked through the gates and into the Manor; Artemis shivered and shook his head to dislodge the most annoying droplets of water that kept falling into his eyes. He wouldn't have been able to tell if all the water on his face was rain if someone held a barrel to his temple.

"Oh my goodness!" Angeline exclaimed, rushing along portraits of past heads of family toward Artemis.

He braced himself, though he wasn't quite able to fake a smile.

"Hello, mother-"

"What happened? Why are you wet? Did the car break down? Are you alright?"

Artemis found that he could fake a smile, after all. He pulled Angeline's hands off his shoulders and clasped them together. "Everything's fine," he said. "I just felt like walking in the rain." And then, because her concern didn't abate in the least, he added: "Just like the song."

Inside his head it sounded banal, but that was the kind of persuasion that worked on his mother, who listened to a lot of different music and was the only reason why Artemis knew that such a song existed. He particularly recalled the lyrics 'wear my mask in silence, pretending I'm alright', although at one time he had found them nauseatingly melodramatic.

"Butler, couldn't you stop him?!" Angeline cried, exasperated rather than worried.

"He was quite adamant, Madam Fowl," Domovoi replied calmly.

"I'll go shower before I catch a cold," Artemis intervened before she would start an altercation. They were here for the ball, and it was still some twenty-four hours before they would be needed, so the most expedient solution was to beg off and pretend that he was working hard – and absolutely had to have his bodyguard guarding him from all the dangers of the internet.

He was half-way up the first flight of stairs before Angeline realised he had fled. Domovoi, as ever, didn't let him go on his own.

Out of breath and shivering, Artemis paused in front of his door, unlocked, and gestured Domovoi to precede him.

"I can't-"

"Can," Artemis cut in. He didn't know what Domovoi was about to say – can't go in? can't let anyone know? can't be seen on the cameras? All of that was groundless fear that someone would read too much into a one-time occurrence they couldn't explain in a house where the inexplicable occurred by the hour. One occasion of Domovoi entering Artemis' room at a time when it wouldn't be appropriate meant nothing in the long run.

Domovoi turned his head to the side. His neck popped.

"It doesn't matter," Artemis said and went in, leaving the decision to his friend. He kicked off his shoes just past the threshold, sparing his rug, and went straight to the bathroom, without asking the computer about his inbox as he usually would. He had checked it remotely some two hours ago, but it used to be a habit…

The titanium-reinforced outside door slid shut; Artemis turned on the light and faced himself in the mirror. He was pale, with circles under his eyes deeper than his bodyguard's, thinner than he had been a month ago. His hair was getting a bit too long, _scraggly_, but getting it cut now would be throwing out money. He could have afforded all the hairstylists in the world, but saw absolutely no reason to.

"It doesn't matter," he repeated, and then Domovoi appeared in the mirror, towering over him, present and distant at the same time. Things were falling apart at the seams, tumbling away, and Artemis didn't have enough limbs to hold onto everything. He began to take off his clothes, button after button undone with trembling bony white fingers, soppy fabric landing on the tiles with a splat.

Domovoi observed him all the while, as if uncertain if he wanted to touch.

Artemis couldn't have made the invitation more obvious. Still, he stepped under the showerhead, let the stream of hot water wash away the rain, and didn't watch Domovoi at all.

He was reaching for the soap when Domovoi made up his mind and shifted to fill the doorway. Artemis relaxed. The noise of the water and the barrier of Domovoi's body blocked out the world for a while; the only connection to it left was inside Artemis' head.

"Do you not," he spoke, uncertain if he could be heard clearly enough, "even at this moment, despise me?"

There was no response – Domovoi hadn't heard him. A little more quietly yet, he said: "I'll miss you." Outside the rain pattered on top of the vans delivering quintals of all sorts of edibles; catering agencies catered to Angeline Fowl's every whim; eligible wealthy women tried on their cocktail dresses; Minerva chartered a private plane. Artemis felt like a centre of gravity – except that he didn't need to be there for the pull to continue. It was depressing and liberating at the same time, just how much of _everything_ didn't rely on him.

"You didn't have to come," he said, louder.

"A life-long contract, Artemis," Domovoi reminded him. Whose life, though, had he meant when he had offered that? His code of honour dictated that he died in defence of his principal, but there were things a principal couldn't be defended from… What did a Butler do when their Fowl died?

"_Adsum_," Artemis breathed. "_Ya zdyes_. _Tu som_. _Koko ni iru_…" The idea got stuck inside his head during his last (ever) call to Holly, and it refused to abandon him, no matter where he went or what he did. Even here, as open as he could possibly become, it itched.

He strained his ears for a response of 'Stay!' but he should have made himself better understood if he wanted one. He should have made himself better understood in general, maybe he would have amassed a different kind of 'people' around himself and – and what? Found something that would have made him want to continue as he was?

He turned off the water and was encircled from behind by a pair of strong, bulky arms, which wrapped him up in his fluffy black towel. For a moment he felt Domovoi's forehead against the top of his skull, then he deftly turned in the embrace and raised his hands to stroke Domovoi's cleanly shaven head. Their eyes met, and it suddenly hit him just how much courage there was in the simple act of not attempting to avoid the reality of their situation.

"Take me to bed?" Artemis asked.

Domovoi interpreted it literally, lifted him off the floor and after five quick strides deposited him on top of the bunched-up blankets, still half-covered with the towel and dripping everywhere. Efficiently, as if their four hands were guided by a single mind, they worked on disarming and undressing Domovoi. The operation was a familiar one, pregnant with anticipation. It always made Artemis want to laugh, like he had laughed a long time ago in Reykjavik, triumphantly and drunk on hope.

There was a tear running down Domovoi's face, and Artemis licked it away, before he laid back and tugged on the hand near his. He wanted Domovoi on top of him, pushing him into the mattress so hard that his bones creaked. Domovoi, however, refused to grant him the slightest bit of pain with his pleasure this time, treating Artemis as though he were fragile, on the verge of shattering into million tiny fragments.

Artemis' mind strayed from the here-and-now to his plan. This was the moment when he could implement it and make Domovoi's otherwise nonsensical worry come true in a way. It would be over for him-

But no, he had things to do left, and he had promised his mother to attend the ball. Next time.

Dilemma solved, his mind returned to the presence and catalogued all the extremities. Their owners had yet to become truly entwined; Domovoi's left hand was knocking apart Artemis' knees to make room for him and his nose was in Artemis' hair.

He listened to Domovoi's broken pants and matched him systole for systole, but otherwise was momentarily content to just remain and let things happen to him… he knew who he was, knew who he wanted to be, knew how to get there, and if he had to rip his heart out-

Like he was the first one to sell his soul to the devil.

x

Juliet, in an indigo mini-dress that left very little undisplayed, and carrying enough imitation jewelry to blind outsiders to their cheapness, mingled among the guests with skill that set her apart from other Butlers, who were notoriously noticeable. She danced with Beckett (quite presentably on both parts), whereas Domovoi lurked and loomed and watched out for the first sign of trouble that simply wasn't going to happen as long as he remained lurking and looming visibly enough.

Artemis drained a glass of tonic and slinked between guests, who didn't recognise him at first sight due to his uncharacteristically messy hair, until he found a companionable potted palm tree to stand by.

"Coward," a contemptuous voice sounded by his elbow.

Artemis' lips quirked; he lifted a glass of champagne off the passing waitress' tray and handed it over to Myles (who would never admit to just how much he liked the bubbly feeling it gave him). It wasn't as though Myles couldn't have obtained any amount or kind of contraband he might think of anyway; Artemis just made it easier on him, because he was the big brother, and though they had not been close in years, he loved the twins.

"I keep telling you that you are a moron, but you don't listen," Myles said, drinking the champagne in little gulps. He looked very sophisticated, for an eleven-year-old – much like Artemis might have looked at that age. Scowling over the rim of the glass, he (rudely) pointed to a chattering quintet of girls. "That one, for example. Vivien something Bergen-Kylar. She's almost half as rich as you are, and her father owns a controlling share in a couple of IT companies and a considerable share of a daughter company of the Paradizo concern."

Artemis chuckled. "Would _you_ marry her?"

"Of course not," Myles replied categorically, but instead of the pre-prepared claim of cooties and unwillingness to contract any contagious disease that he would have given to an inquisitive stranger, he pragmatically reasoned: "By the time the issue will become relevant for me, she will be past the age when her children would have sufficient probability of being carried and born without any health risks."

Artemis glanced to the seafood table, where Domovoi was doing a close inspection, and then to the dance-floor. Juliet let Beckett be stolen by a girl closer to his age, and begged off when a line of suitors condensed, leaving a surplus of abandoned partners to stalk off in aggravation.

"If you were in my place?" Artemis specified. "Hypothetically." He knew that imagination wasn't Myles' strong point, but he also knew that his brother considered weaknesses as something that would be fixed with a bit of training, and while the philosophy hadn't worked for him, he wanted to support his brother in any way he could.

"No," Myles replied.

"Why?" Artemis inquired, mildly intrigued.

"In your place, I would kill myself," Myles said bluntly, "for being such a moron." He passed the empty glass back to Artemis and walked away, the very picture of haughtiness.

Artemis got rid of the glass and decided to brave the halls. It would get him out of Domovoi's sight – and reach – but he would like to conclude his business so he could freely concentrate on dodging marriage proposals.

He had no trouble recognising his only guest among the hundreds of his mothers' invitees. Minerva Paradizo was certainly eye-catching: blood-red designer dress, glittering diamonds, golden-blonde locks of hair elaborately styled on top of her head with curls framing her face, cherry-red lips, cold blue eyes surveying the society, a friendly expression but a disdainful stance… an ordinary young adult genius, Artemis would say. She grew more and more beautiful every time he met her.

He was younger than Minerva after travelling there and back through time and space, and although he was (and always would be) smarter, he was beginning to suspect that she would get further in life. He had not quite burned out yet, he didn't think, but he might as well have been dying of ennui.

"Hello," he said conversationally, stepping up next to her so they could observe the crowds of the stupid together – Minerva with her protective flute of champagne, Artemis with a cocktail stick of the same purpose.

Minerva didn't startle, but she did shuffle her feet and turn so that she could see him out of the corner of her eye, aware of who was the most dangerous predator present.

"Is your father attempting to pressure you into matrimony as well?" Artemis asked, taking a mouse-sized bite of the piece of carcinogenic artificial biomass on the stick. It tasted like nothing.

"Actually," she said, smiling, "I am here of my own initiative. It is very difficult to secure solid husband material and, let's face it, Artemis, you _are_ my perfect match."

Artemis didn't burst out laughing, but it was a near thing.

He didn't know about 'perfect'. In parents' eyes he might have seemed ideal: wealthy, well-mannered, clever and not butt-ugly, but he certainly was not going to be entangled, much less entangled with someone stupid or – in Minerva's case – blinded enough to consider him 'husband material'.

"I'm flattered," he said, and Minerva's infatuation disallowed her to hear the insincerity, "but, unbeknownst to my parents, I already have a partner."

The young woman put on a brave face, but her lip quivered, and there was something in her eyes that Artemis tentatively interpreted as scorn.

"It's not… the fairy, is it?"

Artemis smiled, and there was nothing at all kind in it. He had heard Holly being called much worse things than 'a fairy', but he tended not to consider the speakers his friends. He was now doubly glad that he had never truly viewed Minerva as a romantic prospect.

"I have been informed before that dating outside of my species is viewed as 'distasteful'," he said, and gave an especially polite nod to a passing elder lady in glittering black dress that hugged her sagging frame too tightly. She would have gotten in on the weight of her gemstones and a few genes in common with some airheaded young female – and she was thoroughly scandalised.

In the end Artemis had stuck not only to his species but to his gender as well, and therefore had, technically, become 'a fairy' himself, but he saw no need to burden Minerva with all the facts.

"Dance?" she asked, smiling again – the same smile that Artemis remembered noticing in Barcelona.

"I'd rather not," Artemis replied, showing his incisors, and excused himself, content in the knowledge that he had made his disinterest perfectly obvious.

It remained to be seen whether Minerva would, like a Shakespearean woman, attempt to make his life hell.

There was a chance for a change of pace, although it was too late in coming.

x

For whatever reason, Angeline Fowl considered her eldest son's continued single state a personal failure. She infected her husband with the way of thinking and, joining forces in the endeavour, they invited their wayward progeny onto the carpet.

With the gap of years, Artemis the Second surveyed the office around him and noted marked similarities to his own working places (his rooms and the office buildings of his various businesses) as well as more marked differences. He had always been geared more toward information technology, and disallowed all non-essential paperwork. His father delighted in the stereotypical sheaves of documentation.

"We only want the best for you," the aging man behind the airport-sized desk said with unshakable belief that he knew better, and clasped his wife's hand. "Marriage has made me a happy man."

Artemis was tired of pointing out that they were obviously fundamentally different. Since he was soon parting with this plane of existence, there was no point in coming clean about the complex and sometimes indecent relationship between him and his bodyguard. Besides, logic had never worked so well with these two.

"It's been enough, Father. I don't wish to do this anymore," he stated definitively. He was calm, composed, self-assured, and that more than anything had a chance to convince the man. He said to his mother: "I feel like a fairy-tale heir to the throne," and then turned to his father again, "or as though you were attempting to auction me off-"

"But you are _my_ heir, Artemis," the man protested. "How am I to give all this-" He spread his hands and gestured around his office, but included all the vast Fowl estate in it. "-to you, if you can't give me even the hope of a continuation to the line?"

"Don't," Artemis replied simply.

"Excuse me?"

"Father," he said, in as placating a tone as he could muster, "do not make me the Fowl heir. I believe Myles would do a much better job. I don't need more wealth…" He didn't want more wealth either, especially not now, mere days before he would, for all intents and purposes, stop existing. His father, however, had no chance of understanding that, so Artemis had to find a different argument. "I am proud to say that all I have has come from my own effort. No one gave me money – I made it on my own."

"And everyone knows it," the head of the Fowl house countered. "There is not a man or a woman that would think less of you for accepting your rightful titles."

"Arty," Angeline spoke up, eyes pleading, "if this is because of your brothers, they do not begrudge you anything. You are our firstborn. They look up to you."

Artemis shook his head. He had factored his brothers in, of course, but they had refused his 'fussing' (much the same way Holly had) at young age, and nurtured their fierce independence. He couldn't but commend and pity them, knowing all too well where that road led but lacking the ability to make them see it.

"I have not been a very good brother to them," he said. He had done his best, and it wasn't good enough – how humiliating for a genius. "Please, do not give me this responsibility. I could not comply with it."

Artemis Fowl the First hung his head and stared at his hand, fingers laced together with his wife's. "Is that your final decision?"

"Yes, father," Artemis replied, relaxing. It was done, now. He could divert his attention to other pressing matters.

"Very well," his father replied, straightening. "I am still proud of you, Artemis. I always will be." But he was also disappointed, and Artemis tried not to take it personally. It was, after all, his own fault that his parents knew next to nothing about him, and therefore couldn't begin to comprehend his motivations.

He still felt ambiguous about his childhood – he should not have been left to deal with a bankrupted estate, a missing father, an increasingly schizophrenic mother and learning to be human on his own, supported only by a Butler who had yet to decide on the limits of their interaction – but that could not be changed. His parents had not done that to him intentionally (although he maintained that it was a result of their mutual irresponsibility) and since he had been forced to become independent at such a young, formative age, he would forever consider their interest in his affairs intrusive.

"Thank you," he said dutifully.

"You should have your hair cut," Angeline proclaimed, apparently doing her best to switch to a more comfortable topic. "I can call Mrs Skewerton-"

"No, thank you," Artemis refused, standing. "I will find time next week… hopefully."


	3. Moréna

A/N: Thanks for your reviews! Enjoy another chapter!

Apropos, for those, who requested translations: there is (unless I'm much mistaken) only the Old Icelandic in this chapter, and I did include a bit of translation there, but parts were left a mystery – for a reason. I believe I would be sabotaging myself here, if I said more. Look at it this way: you understand just as much as Domovoi does :-).

Cheers!

Brynn

x

Part Three: Moréna

x

Artemis went riding. He went on his own, and would receive an earful when he got back, but he needed to cool off, to gather his determination to go through with his plan, and he couldn't do that in Domovoi's presence, because his friend read his face like an open book. Domovoi already suspected that bad things were about to happen – possibly expected Artemis to go as far as committing suicide – and it was necessary that he not realise what was truly happening until after it had already happened.

The trick very nearly blew up in Artemis' face when the horse suddenly slowed down and came to a halt in the middle of a meadow.

Artemis reached for his Neutrino. The air in front of him shimmered and Holly Short became visible, suspended level with him on a set of shiny new wings.

"To think I was actually worried about you!" she spat, lifting her hands in exasperation.

"You were the one who informed me that my checking up on you was a source of aggravation," Artemis replied evenly. He buried his heels in the sides of his mare and she moved forth again. "Generally that would not derail me, but I have caused you enough grief already-"

"And you're trying to tell me that you actually _listened_ to me and _complied_, aren't you?" Holly said sarcastically, floating by, matching the horse's speed.

"You came chasing after me, didn't you?" Artemis asked smarmily, twisting his lips in a smirk.

Holly huffed – that was the kind of behaviour she had learnt to expect from him, and Artemis was plenty smart enough not to let her see through him until it was too late.

The last thing he needed now were jibes about his messed-up fixation on his bodyguard angering him into revealing too much of his self-destructively over-ambitious new goal.

"What's with you, Mud Boy?" Holly inquired, nose scrunched-up.

Artemis honestly didn't know the answer to that. He must have skipped that particular psychology lesson. "My parents want me to marry. I don't want to."

"What's new?" Holly mocked.

Artemis would not have expected her to remember – it had been a very long time since he had last spoken with her about the balls his mother insisted on holding. She had kept laughing at him for a while, but it had quickly become old.

"I have rejected my inheritance," he offered. That was the newest point of contention he could think of.

"Like you need more money," Holly shrugged it off. They had been through many truly harrowing junctures, and she could estimate how rough the conditions would have to be for Artemis to become despondent.

Pithily, Artemis thought that if she had been more amenable to talking to him, she would have had a better idea of the depth and intensity of his melancholia.

"Fine," Holly snapped eventually, "if you don't want to talk to me-"

"You're alright, Holly?" he asked. It was not as though she required him for anything. He didn't have to feel guilty for abandoning her, when there was no abandoning happening.

"Shove your concern, Artemis," Holly hissed. "I don't need it. You apparently don't want mine. See you."

The air shimmered and pretended to be empty.

"Bye," Artemis replied, and because he did not know whether she left right away as her annoyance indicated she would, or she stayed around out of the concern she had professed to, he didn't say the 'I won't'.

x

"Where have you been?"

Artemis could tell that Domovoi tried really hard not to make it sound like a reproach, but he didn't manage.

"I went riding," Artemis replied, keeping a steel-grip on his bubbling temper. None of it was Domovoi's fault, and he would rather not blow up at his one ally in the world.

Domovoi must have been waiting for Artemis' return; there was finally no professionalism left between them. He didn't give a damn about his principal's safety anymore, and invested himself in warding Artemis, a young man, a _shield-brother_. Too late.

"I can't protect you when you leave on your own," Domovoi reasoned with him. "You are asking for something to happen."

Artemis didn't have anything to tell him. Eventually, when he came within the sight of his door, he resorted to a bold-faced lie: "Something happening might lighten the tedium."

"You sound like you court death," Domovoi said, with a hint of snarl beneath the equanimity. It was the first time he had spoken the accusation aloud, though he had thought it many times in the past, Artemis knew.

"I don't," Artemis replied truthfully.

"I could not tell."

Artemis punched in the second code, and didn't look over his shoulder to check if Domovoi wanted to come in. He slammed the door shut behind himself, turned on the lights and opened his wardrobe. With a change of clothes and the bag of make-up (which Domovoi liked to pretend didn't exist) in his arms, he moved to the bathroom. It was past the highest time to shoot his valediction and, since it might become one of the most important relics left of him, he wanted to look presentable for it.

x

Minerva Paradizo outsmarted and disappointed Artemis by giving up on her semi-planned revenge due to 'having falen in love' – in her own words. Her victim was a man a few years her senior, with a shock of red hair and red sideburns (she sent the photo attached to the e-mailed apology) and a god-awful Irish accent (which Artemis discovered when he hacked the victim's cell-phone and listened to a couple of conversations) – intelligence above average, education acceptable, job well-paying, background clean.

Artemis approved.

He was still angry.

He seethed his way through the Fowl Manor, stony-faced and cold-eyed.

Domovoi avoided him. Angeline extrapolated that his relationship problems had worsened and promptly invited a group of giggly harridans to allegedly cheer him up.

Artemis barricaded himself in the library, going on the logic that sufficient amount of information and superficiality repelled one another. Domovoi was thus forced to spend time in his presence – pointedly not _with him_, despite their intermittent conversation.

"It's not like we've ever been a unit," Artemis tried to defend his choice of excluding his family from his life as much as he could. He couldn't imagine that their involvement would have brought anything but complication and hurt for everybody. "I barely knew my parents before my father got himself kidnapped by Mafiya. Then mother escaped into her head, and as soon as the crises were averted, I went missing for three years." Absurdly able to imagine the exact reaction he would garner, he added: "Their being mind-wiped gave me back a smidgen of privacy."

"It still surprises me that you had allowed it," Domovoi muttered, eyes fixed onto a random point of the oak paneling, hands shining and re-shining his trusty Sig Sauer.

Artemis said nothing. He remained motionless, still, waiting.

Domovoi snorted with a mixture of resignation and disgust. "You _asked_ for it."

"It was safer this way – for me and for them. And yes, I had actually considered the consequences for them."

"That was very _considerate_ of you, _sir_," Domovoi replied, although it was uncertain whether he had listened.

Feeling uncharacteristically hurt, Artemis engaged as much of his brain as possible in translating the _Glymdrápa_ into English, and ignoring how purposeless the endeavour was considering that he read Old Icelandic fluently.

x

"Good afternoon," Artemis said, took a seat in the living room the twins shared, and tried to find the appeal of an animated TV show Beckett was watching so avidly.

His eyes burnt. He was tired. It had taken him the better part of the night to create a program and set standing orders in all the accounts he held under false identities. It was an insanely complicated sequence, where money came and went in irregular amounts so that none of the banks would have a reason to become suspicious, and that ensured that a set sum would arrive on Domovoi's account every month, even in the case that up to eight of Artemis' accounts were closed by outside interference.

He contemplated if there was more he could do, and eventually consulted with one of the slew of his business' lawyers and signed a piece of real estate (a villa and some vineyard in the south of France) over to Domovoi as well, just to be sure.

It still didn't make what he was going to do fair but he would not give up. Even if he wanted to, and he did _not_, it was too late.

"You're going away," Beckett said out of blue, mouth full of strawberry ice-cream and an illicitly obtained cookie.

"Why do you think so?" Artemis, who had expected _someone_ to jump out at him with this accusation, felt calmer than he thought he would. The two-dimensional idealised animals on the screen were doing deadly and morbid things to one another and exposing immature minds to excessive violence.

"Myles said so," Artemis' youngest brother explained. "Beckett is still kinda surprised, 'cause he thought you'd stay with Butler."

The corners of Artemis' mouth twitched. Children were devils – more observant than the adults gave them credit for. It was just his luck that the twins were too young to jump to correct conclusions.

"If I went away, would you mind much?" he inquired.

Beckett shrugged. "Why ask? You're gonna leave 'nyway." He ladled a blob of pink mass into his mouth.

"I would like to know," Artemis replied, turning down the sound of the TV.

"Figure it out, then," the boy brushed him off. "You're the genius. Beckett-" he tapped his own forehead, "-is the stupid one."

"You're not stupid," Artemis protested. "You're normal." Well, normal in his intelligence level – above average, but not so far that it would have indisposed him from interacting with the rest of the mankind, were it not for his unfortunate other affliction.

"You're lying to make Beckett feel better," Beckett announced, scowling. "You're odd – good and evil at the same time. How can someone be like that?"

In Artemis' mind, 'good' and 'evil' were words with very little substance. He was selfish, and that could be, perhaps, interpreted as being evil, but at the same time he desired nothing that would bring harm to another, and wasn't that what good amounted to? Idealism confused him, because it was baseless and illogical.

"I don't know," he admitted.

Myles entered then, and didn't even pretend that he had not been listening. "It does not matter anyway," he said, "because Artemis is leaving."

"Right," Beckett nodded and grimaced, as if agreeing with his twin physically hurt.

Myles returned the disdain right back, and stood, with his hands on his slim, designer-jeans-covered hips, demanding Artemis' response with his entire bearing. "We all know you are not intelligent enough to take my advice and eat a handful of pills, but you are _not_ coming back, right?"

Artemis drew himself taller – it wasn't often he could talk down to someone _literally_ – and paraphrased Beckett: "You are the genius, Myles – figure it out." The younger twin didn't seem to have noticed the tribute; the elder one sniffed and availed himself to an ice coffee from the mini-fridge.

Artemis set the remote control on the table next to Beckett's ice-cream and left.

x

He heard the dogs pant. Paws hit the grey-blue ground and lifted off in a spray of snowflakes. The night was clear – so clear that similes failed him – stars shone overhead on the backdrop of indigo space and far as the eye could see, the snow was untouched; only the tracks of the sleigh stretched from Artemis' feet to the horizon.

He craned his neck, lifted his chin higher. The dogs were mostly hidden from his sight by the bulky dark silhouette of his sole companion, and the arctic air froze Artemis' lungs, for surely there was no other possible reason for his heart to ache like that? He shifted so he could get a better look, but the muscular arm tightened around him and he melted into the embrace, sighing as he sank back under the furs. Rough, strong fingers stroked the curve of his face, and he relished in being weaker in comparison for once, and protected by his warrior-

Artemis opened his eyes.

It was the first dream in which he had glimpsed the face of his companion on the sleigh, and it made him want to retch. He breathed through his mouth until the bile subsided and he considered it safe to crawl out of the bed. It was just past two o'clock – the perfect time to go out for a ride. No need to alert anyone. It would be just him and his baggage, getting a year's worth of fresh air in the middle of the night, risking his neck.

If he took a tumble and died in an equestrian accident, it would solve everything. He didn't want to, naturally, but when one lived on the edge, the tiny distinctions became difficult to care about.

He initiated a loop on the cameras in the stables – it would be a long while before anyone would notice – and dressed. Rather than his riding clothes, which would have been a dead give-away to the duty manning the cameras, he put on light cotton pants and a shirt (it was summer and he wasn't going to _freeze_).

He walked at an even pace, fooling any potential observer into thinking his conscience was clean and he had no reason whatsoever to hurry or sneak. He was an adult man, and could go out in the middle of the night for a breather if he so decided. If he had been less obsessive about himself, he might have had craving for a cigarette.

"Good evening, Young Master Fowl," the guard by the entrance greeted.

"Evening," Artemis replied shortly and would have faded into the darkness outside, except that his clothes were too light and his father had installed lamps to illuminate the most frequented parts of the grounds.

He met no one else. The air in the stables was heavy and stank of hay and horse manure. Artemis suppressed a sigh – he would have to saddle his mare himself, and though he was perfectly able to, he didn't enjoy the work. There was nothing for it, however, and by the time he had picked the locks and got a hold of his favourite saddle and reins, he didn't mind anymore.

The mare snorted at him, but it was trained well enough that it didn't protest. Artemis tightened all the buckles, patted the beast's neck and led it out. Its hoofs loudly clacked against the concrete, and he was glad to mount and leave behind the immediate vicinity of the Manor, delving further into the grounds-

"Artemis!"

He paused and turned around. Domovoi was standing there, breathing hard with exertion (Juliet must have alerted him, and he must have run all the way), dark against the backdrop of distant lights.

There was a half-forgotten strictness in his voice. "My job is to protect you! I can't do that if you leave on your own!"

"Trust me," Artemis said, clamping his teeth on the bitter laugh that rose in his throat, "I'm _more_ than aware of that."

Domovoi struggled for a while, probably on the verge of saying something harsh, but then he found his quiet place again and asked: "Where are you going?"

Artemis extended his hand and pointed ahead of himself. "The other side of that hill."

x

He was sitting on the grass, unmindful of the green stains it would leave on his clothes; he had let the horse free, knowing that it would run around for a bit and return to the stables before dawn.

Domovoi found him like that a couple of minutes later, took one look at him, tacitly pulled off his shirt and started throwing his weapons on it.

Artemis didn't want this – he didn't want it so much that his throat tightened and he couldn't protest. His hands mechanically undressed him. It was time; his unconscious, subconscious and conscious were in accord, he had put his affairs in order, he had said the goodbyes he had wanted to say and he was ready.

Except that he was not.

Within him rose a forcefulness that rarely manifested physically. Usually he was content to sit back and see his plans being implemented, but that wouldn't have worked in this instance. He had to concentrate that much energy in himself, to _steal_ it and pull it inside, suck it out. Domovoi yielded to his compulsion and they rolled over. Artemis sat up and then Domovoi as well, Artemis' knees aligned with his sides.

"_Sól tér sortna, sígr fold í mar_," Artemis said – _sun darkens, earth sinks in the ocean_. It might as well. He gritted his teeth and reached between their bodies facilitate the connection. It would hurt him like this, without sufficient preparation, but he had accepted that and was ready for it.

It did hurt. He forgot the words momentarily, but then he realised Domovoi was telling him something – what didn't matter – and _moved_. And, yes, it went on hurting, but he sank his nails into Domovoi's shoulders and recited: "…_flýgr örn yfir_..."

Artemis, as a guideline, didn't talk about love.

He had been through so many messy situations that he knew for sure he wasn't above it, but he was certainly above using it as an argument.

There were, however, instances when his self-control folded and it was anyone's guess what he would babble. At fifteen he might have been shocked by the sheer indignity of the act – had he not helped himself with some creative chemistry – but by the time he was nineteen (twenty-two, legally) his mind had worked through it and digested it…

Which was, as a matter of fact, worth very little when his prostate was being stimulated. There was – a whole lot of – nerve endings-

Artemis let out an inarticulate sound somewhere between a growl and a moan.

Domovoi's hand, huge and sweaty, stroked down the side of Artemis' thigh, pulled his knee higher until the tendons were taut, but Artemis' nerve-paths were already overloaded and he barely registered this. He might have cried. His forearms locked around Domovoi's neck, his face pressed into the side of his neck, his throat was parched… He licked off droplets of sweat, felt the pulse in the jugular under his tongue-

Then, there, he might have babbled about love.

"…_sá er öllu rćđr_…" he whispered.

Domovoi couldn't have understood a word, but that didn't matter, for in the next second Artemis spasmed and everything went blue.

x

Domovoi's hand, huge and sweaty, stroked down the side of the lean, pale thigh, pulled until the tendons were taut… Artemis didn't seem to notice. The young man's body shuddered, and Domovoi felt the soft touch of tongue that caught droplets of perspiration running down his neck.

Artemis prattled, none of it particularly coherent to anyone unable to fill the gaps between syllables with lines upon lines of words lost on the path from brain to voicebox-

"…_tar_… _munu_… _eptir_…"

None of it made any sense, and Domovoi tuned it out, focusing on the rhythm, seconds before Artemis' spine arched in a spasm. With a nearly-painful grip on Domovoi's upper arms, Artemis looked at the stars and whispered words that meant nothing to his only listener: "_Ţá kømr inn ríki at regindómi öflugr ofan, sá er öllu rćđr_."

The air went blue, shiny, and it took a few moments for Domovoi to come down from his momentary high and realise that it wasn't simply his brain overloading during orgasm.

His arms were empty; only scratches and a sticky trace of seed across his midriff were left of Artemis.

x

The security camera mounted on the opposite wall reached the extreme of its revolve and Domovoi took a swift step forth. The hole in security had long since been patched up by Artemis himself; however, the feed was only accessible from the inside of his rooms so no one would know Domovoi could still get in… ergo, they could not force him to open the rooms for them.

The lock accepted the scan of his palm and he pushed the door – if such a word could be used to describe the titanium reinforced fortress gate that Downing Street could have been proud of – without waiting for a frivolous signal like flashing green lights or clicking mechanisms.

The place had not changed in its owner's absence – naturally – and he had not expected it to.

"Identification positive: Butler," the computer said in its synthetised voice.

Weary, Domovoi palmed the nearest bed-post – just in case he would need the support through what his principal had prepared for him. The bed itself was not a source of consternation anymore; ironically enough, the entire game of cat and mouse that Artemis had played with him now seemed like 'the good times'.

In front of him, the screen blinked to life. For a moment the clock-work screensaver was displayed, before the desktop appeared and on it three folder icons.

Programmed to open upon Domovoi's identification, one of the icons flickered, and a thin box appeared in the centre of the screen.

"Password?" the computer asked.

"Domovoi," Domovoi replied.

His first guess – a little too obvious, but Artemis had not intended to make it difficult – was accepted; the box filled up with seven stars and vanished.

An application labelled _AFplayer_ loaded, and suddenly Domovoi was meeting Artemis' eyes – except not really. It was the young man's awe-striking ability to anticipate the events that had let him look at exactly the right angle from the camera to appear to be aware of where Domovoi was standing.

Domovoi was glad for the bed-post now.

"Hello, old friend," the video said. "It seems that, once again, things happened for which I need to apologise to you."

The two-dimensional Artemis looked down and took a deep breath as if to steel himself. Domovoi suspected it was either to heighten the sense of drama or, more likely, to manipulate him into feeling less miserable about what was happening-

A horrendous thought occurred to him: was he watching Artemis' Last Will?

"I am certain," the video continued, "that I found the way – or rather, the means – to travel to Asgard. At this point I believe simple communication transcending the planes to be impossible… You must have surmised that I am going – _have gone_, as it is. I will try to take you along but, unless my theories are incorrect, it will not work."

Staring into Domovoi's eyes with such accuracy that it was easy to forget that he was not real and present in the room, Artemis said: "I am sorry, old friend.

"I must ask a favour in this instance: do not lose your faith in me. I had been missing for three years before, and you knew I would come back. This is much the same. It may take me a week – or a decade-"

Artemis reached out as if to adjust the camera, and Domovoi flinched when the touch remained on the other side of the screen, never connecting.

"-but I _shall_ return. Believe in me."

The record continued for ten more seconds, but Artemis didn't speak again. His picture faded out into monochrome black, and the whirring of the machine quieted. For a moment Domovoi feared that it was actually off, for the first time since Artemis had constructed it. That would have meant that his friend had just lied to him, that he didn't think he would be coming back-

One of the little blue LED lights winked.

Domovoi spun on his heel and left. Artemis' rooms sealed themselves behind him.

He had a life-long contract, and there was no doubt that his principal had arranged for his wages to be paid even in his absence, but there was nothing left for him in this house.


	4. Memento Mori

A/N: Hello, everybody! I hope you'll like this chapter and don't get discouraged waiting for the resolution in a week's time. The few translations for this chapter are available on the bottom. Enjoy!

Brynn

x

Part Four: Memento Mori

x

Artemis came to with the realisation that he was unbearably cold. Short observation yielded an unpredictable result: he was naked, bleeding, lying in snow, in the middle of a night illuminated by aurora polaris.

An examination of his surroundings docked his survival chances even lower. He could still move, despite the post-rough-sex pain, but that movement wouldn't get him far – the snow plane stretched further than eye could see.

He had nothing. He didn't know where he was… It had been a long time since he had felt this helpless. This was worse than the Twelve Wonders Park; there might not have been any crazed trolls here, but there was also no way out, no instruments to use, no one coming to save him…

"Domovoi?!" he shouted, voice tinged with desperation.

No response.

Snow twinkled and glowed; blues, greens and violets played like in a narcotic dream. Artemis kept moving up the slope and tried to find a logical solution. This was not his world – he could tell. It had the same feel as his recurrent dreams, except that in those he had always been warm and never in pain and never alone…

Thinking again, this did resemble reality.

"I knew I said I was going to die," he spoke, going on the logic that if there _was_ something that could hear him, it would be stupid of him to freeze because he had not made himself heard, "but I didn't expect it to be quite this fast…"

Again, the universe gave him its universal answer.

He sank into the snow and dug himself deeper, creating an improvised shelter that would, with time, warm up with his body heat. It was uncomfortably reminiscent of a coffin, but it would give him time to think. If there was a chance to survive, he would.

If there wasn't…

x

There was no doubt Myles had expected this to happen, and it was similarly obvious that he had alerted Beckett to the possibility, but Artemis and Angeline Fowl reacted with the expected shock-horror-accusations sequence Domovoi anticipated.

"Artemis is missing," he repeated simply.

Their words – harsh, even vulgar words – washed over him, tumbling into wells of despair and sinking into the mire of his conscience. There was nothing they could say that would hurt him, not compared to the cutting – clawing – _burning_ pain of being left behind.

He knew it wasn't because he had failed. He had been good enough, he had done all that he could, regardless of whether it was 'right', simply because that was what Artemis wanted. He had invested all of himself, and…

Artemis (had) loved him, Domovoi believed, loved him childishly and obsessively and wouldn't have given up on him… if it had been possible.

"…_irresponsibility_ and _incompetence_…" Artemis the First raged until spittle flew from his mouth.

"My poor baby-" Angeline wailed, wiping her tears with a monogrammed handkerchief.

Myles briefly looked up from his book, but dove back into it with haste, informing everyone that: "I told you so."

"You're fired!"

Domovoi shook his head (he had a life-long contract and, as far as he was concerned, his principal was alive), and let them aim their fear and anger at him. This was all part of the job.

x

"Don't move!" a female voice _commanded_ as soon as Artemis was conscious enough to understand speech.

He wasn't going to oblige, but then the paralysing pain registered and he reconsidered. His mind (affected by agony) finally identified the language spoken.

"Who are you?" he asked, also in Old Icelandic. His position – of utter helplessness – was still novelty to him. He would have been afraid, but all his worry was being directed at Domovoi. Had he remained behind as Artemis had predicted? Had he coped?

"My name is Skuld."

"Like the Norn," Artemis mused.

Deep, rumbling laughter finally motivated him to open his eyes. His first, rather absurd, thought was to how unlike Tolkien's fiction this was: arches of rough stone, furs on the floor and on the walls, faint stink of urine and dogs and unwashed human bodies, frigid air, a cauldron with burning coals underneath it an arm's reach from his position.

Skuld was a woman so large that the only comparison he could have drawn would have been to Domovoi. She had a wide, unfortunate scar across her face, but far more interesting were her shining blue eyes, two thick braids of blonde hair and partial armour designed for ample female chest. She was _fierce_.

"I _am_ the Norn, little mortal," she said, smiling as if to reassure him that there was no danger. "You impressed many by finding your way onto our Earth, _barn_, even if you nearly paid for it with your life. You also angered many more… but do not fear. Rest for now."

Artemis fell back into hazy dreams of the life he had abandoned.

x

"Not a trace of him," Foaly grumbled, scratching the back of his head, stumped by his unprecedented failure.

Domovoi nodded.

"He's either advanced a century in technological evolution in under a year and developed something that made him untraceable – which is not possible, take my word on it – or he's not within hundred miles of this planet." The centaur seemed sad – lately everybody Domovoi met seemed either sad of angry – and he shrugged helplessly. "I've done what I could."

"Thank you," Domovoi said simply.

"You didn't think we would find him, did you?" Holly asked, and there was a scuffle while she wrestled the communicator away from Foaly. Her face, pinched and frowning, appeared on the display. "He's gone and done something stupid again, I bet – like raising the Four Riders of Apocalypse-"

"He had mentioned-" Domovoi stopped himself from saying anything incriminating.

"Mentioned _what_?!" Holly demanded, echoed by Foaly, who used his greater strength to regain possession of the device.

"The possibility of other worlds existing," Domovoi replied vaguely, hoping that they would accept his reply. They seemed to.

"D'Arvit!" Holly could be heard cursing. "We're going to have an inter-dimensional crisis now!"

Foaly exchanged a commiserating look with Domovoi across half the world, and logged out.

x

"Allow me to repeat so I can assure myself I understand your request correctly," Artemis said slowly, stirring the soup-like food in the cauldron. He had been relegated to the easiest work around once his captor-slash-protector ascertained that he did not have any 'useful skills'. He had managed to keep his head down and do his reconnaissance in the meantime, but this had still come as a complete shock.

"I request nothing, little one," Skuld said, with her customary cheer. "It is a simple fact. It is your duty. You will start training tomorrow, with Göndul and Hildr." She beckoned to the two massive, armed and armoured young women standing to the side. They were watching Artemis with the same amount of interest they might have given to the food he was helping prepare.

"I am a man," Artemis pointed out in a feeble effort to get himself out of this bind. "If anything, I ought to be-"

"Shutting up and listening to your betters," Hildr rumbled in a house-shaking alto.

"I can see into your dreams," Skuld said almost conversationally.

Artemis felt blood draining from his face. There was no way he would get out of it now.

"Do not fret so," she chided him. "You will learn many a _useful skill_. In the end, it might be the correct road to your most secret goals."

Artemis lowered his head in a gesture of submission – a new but not entirely uncomfortable position for him – and let his hair fall in front of his eyes.

"Have a productive day, little mortal," Skuld said.

Artemis considered himself a bio-psycho-thaumo-social being, and strongly suspected that being called 'mortal' amounted to discrimination, but he held his mouth shut, because compared to Skuld he really was 'little'.

"_Bless_," he replied. She was a little sensitive about the niceties, and it was in Artemis' interest to remain in her good books. So far it appeared that she was the only one keeping a horde of bloodthirsty Vikings from making mince-meat of him.

He glanced to the side through the curtain of his fringe: the two she-warriors were considering him with disdain that promised _pain_.

x

"I remember you," Miss Paradizo – soon to be Mrs O'Boyle-Paradizo – narrowed her eyes at Domovoi. "I always thought it was strange you were so _old_."

Domovoi bit his tongue; he was neither rich not influential enough to be able to afford speaking with this woman with any kind of equality. She reminded him a little of Artemis when he was ten, except that she was much less willing to compromise her ideals.

"My principal is not someone who would be removed from any place he wishes to occupy," Domovoi said, implying at the same time that her accusation of his failure was false, and that Artemis was alive.

"He outsmarted himself, in the end," Miss Paradizo said, flicking manicured fingers in the direction of the limousine. "He should have taken his own advice and cease contact with the _subnatural_ elements. I did, and I am satisfied with my steady rise in the world."

She passed by Domovoi, heels clicking. Her bodyguard – a _young_ Caucasian male in a black suit – held the car-door open for her, and then shut it.

The window rolled down and Miss Paradizo peered through blue-tinted lenses of her fashionable glasses. "If he ever deigns to grace us _mere mortals_ with his presence, tell him I said 'hello'."

x

Script meant writing and writing meant some kind of archive, and Artemis was quick to weasel out information. It helped – no matter how much it stomped on his ego – that he was continuously disregarded due to his small stature and lack of exuded aggression.

He had manipulated out answers that his 'trainers' never recalled giving, and he had learnt more yet once he had successfully detected the library. The runes gave him a bit of a pause, but in the end they weren't that different from what he had encountered in libraries of his 'home world'.

"You are much cleverer than you look," Skuld told him in the middle of one night, having returned after weeks of absence to monitor his progress. "But you still have eons to go before you get the better of me."

Then she gave him a heavy wrought chest, which she had, apparently, carried in. Artemis couldn't move it an inch, and would have to resort to tricking Hrund into relocating it for him, which fortunately wasn't going to be problematic. He was finally acclimatised enough to start plotting in the pursuit of his goals.

"These are gifts for you, _barn_," Skuld said, "not that you have deserved them. The test that awaits you will be difficult enough. You must consult your cold heart and choose if you are selfless enough to live for another. Ráðgríðr assures me that you are not. I wish to believe otherwise."

Artemis watched as she waited for his response and then, disappointed, left in silence. He tugged on his pony-tail. He could hazard a guess that the contents of the chest were delivered straight from Freya – and he did shiver at the thought, but he had had to come to terms with gods being reachable and tangible, which naturally put a limit of the amount of respect he could muster. He should not have had the slightest clue about what the contents were, either (and he wouldn't but for his looting the archive), but had Skuld not been certain he needed no more instruction, she would have provided some.

"Selfless?" Artemis muttered, and then he laughed. He had never been and never would be selfless. He was an eternal egoist, and he wanted for himself the man he loved – and he wanted him for longer than a measly few years. If that meant giving up his freedom, or, indeed, his right to exist if he was rejected, then so be it.

He spent two minutes determining how to unlock the chest, and then chugged down the sweet-smelling liquid in the vessel he found inside. It went to his head _anon_. His knees folded and he had to struggle to crawl over to the pile of furs that was his bed. The hellish _dress_ he had been forced to wear dragged over the floor.

"Aut vincere…" he tried to persuade himself, but then consciousness became impossible to hold onto.

x

"It's been two years, brother," Juliet repeated for the third time. "You know as well as I do that your pretended search is completely pointless. You are needed here-"

"I'm tired, Juliet," Domovoi said into the cell-phone. He was walking past the tax-free shops on the airport, glancing left and right to keep track of the mass of people. He missed the times when flying was comfortable – the Cesna always ready for take-off and Artemis as competent as any certified pilot (more so, he suspected). International airports were a hassle.

"You've spent twenty-four months running around all over the globe," she retorted. "Chill out for a bit! Here's a steady job for you, and the little one has at least a decade to go before she's any trouble. Come and see her. She's lovely. Dark hair, a little curly, and blue eyes. She's going to be a heart-breaker."

Domovoi sighed. "I can't be a bodyguard anymore."

"You wouldn't be a bodyguard per se. I'm not one, either. Just a member of the security. Come on, brother," she needled.

Domovoi paused in front of his gate. He thought of tiny Marilyn Fowl, barely three months old today. Would she ever meet her eldest brother? He doubted he could do much for her, but he wanted to – anything was better than this listless drifting.

"You _know_ you want to," Juliet said.

He nodded. "Alright."

x

"Do my eyes deceive me?" Ráðgríðr exclaimed, galloping on her stallion. Hoofs kicked up showers of snow behind them, but Ráðgríðr's naked arms glistened with sweat. She slowed her horse down to ride alongside Artemis, and said: "It seems as if you weren't _completely_ useless, _strákur_!"

Artemis was of the opinion that neither of his companions or teachers would have survived a day in Midgard, but he refrained from pointing it out. Instead, he concentrated on not falling off his horse. He had thought himself a very good rider, until he had tried to saddle one of Sleipnir's descendants. These animals didn't believe in horse-trappings.

"It is a good day when I surpass your expectations, Ráðgríðr," Artemis replied. He would never be truly humble, but he was older than he had believed he could grow, and proportionally mature; he had learnt to admit that there were beings so powerful that intellect on its own could not stand up to them. "I shall endeavour to bring about more days like this."

The woman laughed, and they raced across the plain of virginal snow. Artemis let himself be infected by his companion's motherly merriment and laughed with her, but his mind rarely strayed off his goal. He had learnt to submit, had learnt to wear women's clothes and armour, learnt to accept that his genius meant little to nothing to these ethereal creatures, but he never stopped missing the reliable presence at his shoulder. He kept turning his head trying to spot Domovoi out of the corner of his eye; sometimes he called out of his dream, or vainly searched for him when he returned to his cell-like room tipsy on mead (mead was ceremonial – they had never heard the word 'abstinent' here).

Votor, Artemis' horse, came to a halt on top of what amounted to a snow dune. In the distance in front of them – and in the distance behind – towered Valhalla, white and blinding, with stalwart Heimdall guarding the gates and a perpetual feast going on inside.

"You are not so bad," Ráðgríðr grudgingly allowed. "For a mortal."

Artemis inclined his head; the tip of his pony-tail brushed his neck and slid over his collarbone, tickling. If Skuld had not informed anyone that he wasn't mortal anymore, she would have had a reason, and Artemis knew a superior mind when he met one.

Not that he intended to let her get the best of him forever, no. She simply presented a limit to reach and breach.

x

Domovoi accepted his underlings' unenthusiastic reports – it _was_ half past three in the morning – and took off the headset. He closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair.

"No trouble here either?" Juliet asked, with her head stuck in the door.

"No," Domovoi replied. "Young Master Myles is quite intimidating." There was no denying that the Fowl heir had a similar amount of power as his brother had once held, and made his acquaintances wary, but he tended to display it more ostensibly than Artemis ever had. Artemis had always believed in functionality over appearance…

"We'll wrap it up, brother," Juliet said. "Go get some sleep."

Domovoi lifted himself from the seat, joints popping, feeling his almost seventy physical years in his bones. He was just pushing fifty-two, but no one could tell from looking at his face. He was wrinkled and frailer than he wished. He looked more like Juliet's grandfather than her brother – and she was still radiant, but much calmer, and undeniably competent at her work.

"Did you eat?" Juliet asked as he passed her. She didn't wait for a response and pressed a plastic container into his hand. "There was enough left to feed an army," she said disdainfully.

"A prerogative of the rich," Domovoi replied, and they shared a wan smile.

He left the security centre and pretended not to see Young Master Myles smuggle one of the more inebriated guests into his bedroom. The boy was sixteen now, and Domovoi couldn't help but be amused at how he kept being compared to his elder brother. Certainly, they were both genii, but that was where all similarity ended.

Bitterly, with the door of his designated room closed behind himself, Domovoi noted that Artemis had been fifteen when he had plotted out his first seduction, and where he had set his eyes. The encounter was more of a fact than a true memory, blotted out by time, drugs, stress, other encounters…

Domovoi pressed his forehead to the cold windowpane and stared at the rear-lights of the last departing guests vanishing into the distance. His breath fogged the glass, and he became aware of wetness on his sunken cheeks.

When had he cried for the last time? He couldn't recall.

It left him feeling wrung, terminally tired, fed up with the world and its cancerous decay. He wanted out, desperately. He wanted Artemis, and obliviousness and escape.

x

Artemis' mind analysed the watching crowd and the hall itself, and he focused very hard on his objectives to keep from being intimidated. Valaskjálf was a part of his home and, yes, he did feel an adequate measure of contempt for it, but this was his first audience with the top guy.

Óðinn didn't do much day-to-day ruling, but he was the one everybody deferred to and – as Artemis realised, meeting the single eye not covered by an eye-patch – the one who did have sufficient ability to maintain order. There weren't many men who could dream of putting Skuld into her place.

Artemis had, so far, managed to win over Ráðgríðr on one, memorable, occasion. It made life _interesting_.

"And you believe the rules shall be disregarded in your case, due to your being a mortal?" Óðinn asked, carding his fingers through his magnificent fox-grey beard. It was, naturally, a trick question.

Artemis stood straighter. "In some cases, stringent application of rules becomes impractical, and it is a mark of a flexible system that it can adapt," he said, counting on Óðinn's alleged omniscience when he used Midgard wording. "As to my argumentation, I would hardly present obviously false information as the core of my defence. With Freya's blessing upon me, I cannot count myself amongst mortals."

Óðinn's eye twinkled as he gazed down from his throne.

Artemis was certain that he had observed all the traditions and the unwritten etiquette of Hlidskjalf, the throne hall, but now the decision was up to the whim of the god. He was also aware of the commotion behind his back: the majority of the audience was puzzled by the unfamiliar terms and not entirely certain as to what was going on. They were, however, quick to anger and prone to violence-

"A breath of fresh air, you are, insolent child," Óðinn said, amused. "You scarcely require my permission."

As a matter of fact, Artemis knew enough about the workings of this world that he was more than willing to attempt to act _around_ the gods, and possibly move on to Alfheim if he encountered insurmountable resistance.

"I see no reason to stand in your way, child of Man," Óðinn finished, waving his hand and gesturing for the next auditioned to step up.

x

"-don't give a damn about us!"

"Of course I do."

"_Yes_, you even asked what kind of tombstone we'd like when _your_ business will go belly-up and _your_ 'friends' will come kill us all." The voice – Beckett's – paused, and then added: "Beckett wants Phrygian marble. It's got pretty colours."

Domovoi raised his hand to rub the bridge of his nose, but his glasses were in the way. His breath grew shorter week by week, too, and his spine was beginning to curl up, giving him a permanent stoop – that was not to mention the arthritis.

"Why don't you make a survey with the family and submit it to my assistant?" Myles asked calmly. His brother's concern failed to touch him.

"Marilyn will want Tennessee marble," Beckett replied candidly. "The pink variation."

"Should I survive all the rest of the family," Myles said, and finally the two brothers came within sight, so different from one another that it was hard to believe they were twins, "which has only about eighteen percent chance of occurring, I will provide all the proper treatment for your dead bodies."

"Beckett would appreciate more, if you made sure our bodies remained alive," the other boy retorted, contemplative rather than scornful. He was strange, and Domovoi had never come even close to understanding him, but Juliet cared for him as though he was 'her' Fowl – a little more than would be prudent, perhaps, but she remained professional about it.

Myles rolled his eyes and glanced at Domovoi as they passed him. "That's the Butlers' job, idiot."

x

Artemis rode alongside Skuld, disgruntled and staring to the horizon with longing he didn't wish to name. This endless waiting was getting the better of him. He had hurried to finish his training as soon as possible (and managed in less than half of the usual time), because he had wanted to be ready when the time came.

The time did not seem to be coming anytime soon.

A horn sounded somewhere in the distance – a long, plaintive sound. Skuld lifted her hand to shield her eyes – the wind gripped her hair and played tug-o-war it – and gazed at the skies-

-which split. A ray of something akin to sunlight melted the snow wherever it landed, and meandered up and down the plain in search of something. Artemis covered his face with his forearms a second before it localised him and stopped. Votor was suddenly standing on short, vividly green grass.

"That's it," Skuld said, smiling at him.

Artemis took a deep breath. It hurt. Yes, he had been waiting for the moment, but the knowledge that Domovoi was dead… He choked and then smoothed out his face.

"You know what to do," Skuld encouraged him.

Artemis nodded. Yes, he knew.

"_Bless_," he told his patron, kicked his horse, and rode into the light.

x

Translations from Icelandic (according to unreliable sources):

_barn_ = kid, child

_strákur_ = boy

_bless_ = goodbye


	5. Einherjar

Hello there! I'd like to think everyone who offered any kind of feedback on this story. I hope the end doesn't disappoint. Enjoy, and wish me luck on my exam tomorrow.  
Brynn

x

Part Five: Einherjar

x

Marilyn Fowl usually returned home from school in a very good mood, her little head filled with loads of useless new information gleaned from the book she read – which in most cases had little or nothing to do with the subject matter she should have been taught.

She exasperated her teachers – and her parents – to no end. They were accustomed to boys who, despite all the strangeness surrounding them, had never had trouble with concentration or marks. The Fowls' only daughter, on the other hand, found school uninteresting. She aced some subjects and entirely failed others, and the only things that succeeded in holding her attention were fiction and fine art.

"… and Miss Poppington attempted to confiscate my book," she complained to her mother, who did take the time to spend at least an hour a day with her daughter, still deeply affected by the second time she had lost her eldest son. "I had to distract her with a debate on the progressive disenchantment with the current age displayed in Dickens' works, until the end of the lesson. It was _awful_. Who cares about Dickens?"

Marilyn was six.

"Dickens is classic, honey," Angeline replied, eyes straying to the nearby shelf where her husband had moved the elder editions once their daughter's collection of books began to expand.

"Dickens is _stale_," Marilyn replied uncompromisingly, with the vocabulary of a seasoned author, but the point of view of a small child. "Speculative fiction is much more interesting, right, Grandpa 'tler?"

Domovoi inclined his head in a neutral gesture.

Marilyn self-assuredly nodded. Her pigtails bobbed.

Domovoi was about to start another of the endless ruminations on how _old_ he felt and, apparently, looked as well – it did no good telling the Fowl daughter that he was younger than her parents, once he had been designated 'Grandpa' –when his pager beeped.

He rose to his feet, quietly excused himself, and went to do his work. The Fowls were too considerate of him nowadays. It seemed as though they had forgotten that they believed him responsible for the hole in their family, and made allowances for his waning strength. Certainly, no other member of the security would have been allowed to spend an hour a day just lounging around while the youngest Fowl did her homework.

Once in the hall, he activated the intercom. "Trouble?" he asked.

The male voice on the other side let out a stream of profanity, before the transmitter was stolen from him and Juliet spoke in a tense voice: "Infiltration, brother! Three bodies, professional gear, masked, armed. Currently on the ground floor. Guards dead."

Domovoi's eyes widened; he felt his heart skip a beat. He had not been in a combat situation for years. Three competent assassins was more than he could hope to handle… Still, Domovoi had alerted Juliet to the possibility of it happening, and he had made the issue of his disposability clear. It wasn't as if he wanted to die… no, not really.

Maybe just a little.

"Point of contact below the main staircase," Juliet barked. "Sending reinforcement. Don't argue and _move_!"

Domovoi wanted to argue, but a lifetime of training took over and he ran down the stairs faster than he should have if he paid attention to his knees. He threw himself into a roll from the second-to-last step – he was old, not lame – to avoid a shower of bullets. He had pulled something, but there was no time for pain.

He kicked the feet from under someone, and the person was flexible enough to land on their hand and push themselves upright, but Domovoi had a knife in his hand and an uncovered side displayed to him for almost a second. He had taken advantage.

He was punched into the kidneys and yelled in pain. A knife flew inches from his face and hit his attacker, but not fatally, because they gripped Domovoi's upper arm and neck and gave him a push that sent him face-first into the wall.

He heard Juliet's shouting, but the world swayed from the blow into his head. He heard more shouting – his face met the wooden facing again – Angeline's and Marilyn's high-pitched screams. He had to get his ass in gear.

A rapid crouch and step to the side, and he struck his enemy's solar plexus with his shoulder. Then he buried his elbow in their stomach-

-and got a punch to the gut that doubled him up.

There was an explosion and more screaming, and he was sent careening into the railing of the staircase. He felt ribs breaking. Trying to catch his breath, he didn't have a chance to look around, and it was only luck that he wasn't hit with a throwing star. It embedded itself in the paneling, and he spun, ready to punch.

His foe was ready as well, hitting Domovoi's obviously injured chest.

Domovoi held his wakizashi in his hand, and opened the man's jugular with unmistakable aim. Juliet appeared behind the dying assassin and wrenched him away, throwing him into the wall before she realised he had been mortally wounded.

Domovoi staggered and fell backwards; if the carpet was supposed to cushion him, he didn't feel it.

Silence descended with concussing force.

Domovoi turned his head. It was difficult, and painful, but he had to be certain that the Fowls were safe. Myles, unruffled, stepped into the light, while Beckett lifted himself off the floor, covered in dust and rubble. Artemis Fowl didn't seem to have been touched, and Angeline mostly refrained from screaming now, so it stood to reason that she and Marilyn had not been harmed either.

Juliet finished a frantic call to the ambulance, but he could see in her face that she held no hope.

Domovoi sighed. Breathing was becoming difficult; there were bubbles. Absently, he realised that the last blow he had received had pushed his broken ribs inwards and ripped his lungs.

He was dying, and this time there was no helpful LEPrecon officer to heal him after Artemis had deep-frozen him for hours-

Artemis.

Domovoi closed his eyes. Instead of breathing he wheezed and gurgled. He blocked out everything but the memory. In a way, death was coming as a relief. He had hoped to be there for his principal's return, but even the staunchest faith wavered when confronted with time and loneliness. He wished he could have – could have spent more time… he wished Artemis had been content enough to stay. Some days it was getting hard to convince himself that he had been there when his principal had vanished into thin air, that it wasn't just a fabrication of his mind trying to protect him from the reality of Artemis' death.

"Why aren't you doing anything?" Angeline cried.

"Nothing to be done," Myles replied coolly.

Was Domovoi hearing the clicking of hoofs?

The hallucination made him look. He was going to die sane, if nothing else – sane and undefeated.

And alone, regardless of the audience-

An honest-to-god horse canted into the Fowl Manor's hall. It was a huge, hulking grey-speckled stallion and, unless Domovoi's eyes betrayed him completely, its hoofs didn't quite connect with the floor.

It came to a halt a couple of yards from him, and a figure in vaguely female clothing – a mixture of white ceremonial dress and medieval armour – slipped off its bare back.

They landed in a crouch to the sound muffled clinking and spun to look at Domovoi's prone, blood-stained form. The face belonged to a young man, whose long dark hair had been pulled back into a tight braid. His eyes were mismatched: one blue, one hazel.

"Artemis…" Domovoi said, amidst blood-bubbles gurgling and bursting.

There went the rest of his sanity.

"Arty?!" Angeline Fowl pleaded, thunderstruck.

The apparition – for it seemed Domovoi wasn't the only one who saw it – straightened and surveyed the hall. "Father," it said in Artemis' voice, and nodded in greeting. "Mother. Myles. Beckett. Marilyn. Juliet."

It didn't wait for a response and, indeed, ignored their shocked exclamations in favour of lowering itself on its left knee by Domovoi's side and wryly smiling.

"Greetings, brave warrior," Artemis said loudly, _ceremonially_. "I am your Valkyrie. Allow me to accompany you on your journey to Valhalla."

Domovoi would have laughed – that was so much like his young friend! – but his body convulsed-

x

All of sudden, Domovoi was sitting up with his hand clasped in Artemis'. He looked around, confused, to find what was missing; the only trace of his wounds left behind was a pool of coughed-up blood. The rest of the scene had not changed the slightest bit: corpses of dispatched attackers were cooling where they had fallen, Juliet silently cried, dishevelled and blood-splattered, the Fowls had not moved an inch, with the exception of Marilyn, who hid behind her mother's skirt, and Myles, who had procured a chair, sat down, crossed his legs and watched with disguised fascination.

Artemis wiped the corners of Domovoi's mouth with a square piece of cloth and stashed it away somewhere in the folds of his skirts. Domovoi realised his palm had left a partial red print on Artemis' shiny breastplate.

"A Valkyrie," Domovoi said pensively. There was no sign of his recent near-death. In fact, he felt better than he had since before he had been shot by Arno Blunt. Had Artemis acquired magic of his own? It would hardly be surprising.

Artemis _smiled_. It was a tiny smile, and it didn't take away years from his face, but it was true. He rose and for the first time in conscious memory gave Domovoi a hands-up.

"A Valkyrie, my friend," Artemis confirmed. "Just like you have become my Einherjar."

Angeline finally understood the fact that her dead and mourned eldest son was standing in front of her. She swayed, but restored her balance by touching her husband's shoulder. "Artemis-"

"I thought Valkyries were women," Myles remarked, checking his nails.

"Traditionally," Artemis replied, and made the transition from the Manor's floor to the back of his horse in one fluid movement. From up there, he grinned at his stunned audience, and insolently added: "In fact, it depends mostly on the warrior's taste."

Domovoi climbed onto the beast in front of the young man, and suddenly had a warm, _alive_ body plastered all over his back. He turned; Artemis' eyes shone with elation, and he pressed his lips to Domovoi's in their first-ever kiss, startling and scandalising the Fowls.

Someone – _Juliet_ – snorted through tears.

"T-that's breach of contract…" Atremis Fowl the First stammered, pale in the face. Marilyn, bug-eyed, peeked out from between him and his wife.

"Which contract?" Artemis asked playfully. "The one that ended when Domovoi died? I was the one who wrote that contract – and I made sure that I excluded from the formulation whatever I might have disliked."

"Butler?!" Artemis the elder roared, shaking in fury at the thought of his son and heir having been defiled by his bodyguard prior to his death.

"We have to get going." Artemis stated before a family-wide row could break out. "Goodbye." He clucked his tongue at the horse, and the animal obediently set out at a light trot. Domovoi swayed and wished there had been reins to grip.

"Farewell!" Juliet called.

The Fowls, however, weren't so willing to let their momentarily reanimated son and brother out of their lives.

"Artemis!" his father bellowed.

"Arty!"

Artemis lifted his hand and waved. The walls of the building – and, indeed, everything with the exception of himself, the horse and Domovoi – became transparent, ethereal.

"Moron," Myles scoffed, as if from great distance.

"Uh huh," Beckett protested, smug like he only was in the rare instances he had managed to one-up his smarter brother. "Beckett'd say he knew a good thing when he saw it. You're just jealous."

Everything went dark and silent. The horse came to a halt.

Artemis spoke: "Scientists have long since discovered that the universe is expanding, but no one has yet proved that it is, in fact, doing so divergently. Moreover, from my observations, time-space is naturally self-similar." He noticed that Domovoi didn't understand what he was nattering on about, and, with a visible strain, attempted to dumb it down: "Logically, there are uncountable other worlds out there – and now we have the time to look around."

"I am dead, am I not?" Domovoi asked, just to make sure.

"You're Einherjar." Domovoi's unfamiliarity with the word must have been tangible, because Artemis elucidated: "But, yes, you are dead."

"What about you?"

"My continued existence is tied to my service to you," Artemis explained, chuckling at the paradox of himself as a Butler's servant. "I have obtained Óðinn's blessing for that – and for us travelling beyond the borders of the realm. We're free."

"Can we go back to our world?"

"Yes, of course. Except that – we should try and fit in, or the fairies will take it out of our hides."

They must have been waiting for something, because then the horse moved on again.

Landscape came into being around them, first transparent, then gradually more and more material. A plane of snow extending from horizon to horizon came into sight; the air was frosty and the sky high above them tinged with the colours of a physically impossible rainbow.

"I realise it was not your choice, but you have died, my friend. It was this – or nothing," Artemis said, tone somewhere between explanatory and apologetic. "By the way, your contract was for life so, technically, you… are not bound to stay with me."

"Which way, Artemis?" Domovoi asked.

"What I wouldn't give for a GPS," the young man grumbled, but Domovoi could hear his smile. Using Domovoi's shoulders as lever, Artemis lifted himself, craned his neck to see as far as he could, then closed his eyes and sniffed the air. "There," he said, extending his arm and pointing.

The horizon was made up of various shades of pale blue: far as eye could see there was nothing but snow.

"Was that magic or echolocation?" Domovoi inquired, too out of his depth to be surprised.

"I wish," Artemis sighed. "That's the way the smell of smoke comes from."

Domovoi, biting down a sarcastic remark, nudged the horse. It set out in a slow, regular gait. Artemis lifted himself on his thighs (gods knew what he had done during the years, what he had learnt and how that had changed his body), locked his forearms around Domovoi's neck and buried his nose in Domovoi's nape.

Artemis Fowl the Second had never been so tactile; had never been so happy either. Here, in a world where wolves howled goodnight and hygiene was probably a dirty word, where technology had not yet been dreamt up and all philosophical arguments one needed were summed up in a good sword, the genius boy with more awards and patents to his name than he cared to keep track of finally found something that made him feel alive again.

It was ironic, but Butlers knew that irony was usually but a flimsy cover for a slew of very good reasons.

There were worlds to be discovered and understood. There were prizes to be coveted and rivals to be defeated and, occasionally, humiliated. There were sources and obstacles and what Artemis had missed most back home: goals yet to be attained.


End file.
